


Heart & Healing

by spirrum



Series: A Different Path [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Baby Fic, F/M, featuring a gaggle of adoptive aunts and uncles, post-Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 12:59:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8209414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirrum/pseuds/spirrum
Summary: “You didn’t have the best soil,” Cole says. “But you grew anyway. I can feel you, growing. Your thoughts, too bright for words. Colours and sounds, it’s all a little too bright for you, but you will get there.”A pause, then – “Sprouting, smiling, stubborn, but you’re not a weed,” he adds, not an observation, but a statement that falls with quiet determination, though there is no one around to hear.“Weeds are unwelcome, unwanted. You never were.”





	1. and all of this world

**Author's Note:**

> A baby fic in three parts, featuring Sage, my freckled firetop of a Solavellan kid. Set in some indefinite time between "Before the End, A New Beginning" and "Perennial". Please keep in mind that the three parts weren't written chronologically, so the timeline doesn't always add up perfectly, but think of it as a collection of moments from the first years of Sage's life.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this lavishly emotional product of my over-wrought heart.

The first time he holds her the unbearable _smallness_ of her shape is such a staggering fact, he forgets how to breathe.

Ten fingers, ten toes, and nose scrunched up in disagreement, she’s placed into the crook of his arm with a promptness that feels too sudden, too brusque, but there is no room to complain, or to slow time down long enough to catch his breath. And his hands are a healer’s hands, bloodied but gentle, and sure in all his gestures, but they’re shaking now, a tremble that is half-fear, half-relief, and he has never been more aware of himself, from the strength in his grip down to his every, starved breath.

“All accounted for?” the midwife asks, half-joking, brow slick with sweat and her eyes hard and tired, and Solas knows her relief for what it is but doesn’t mention it – doesn’t allow his gaze to linger on how her own hands shake, fisting in her bloodied frock.

Ten fingers, ten toes, and lungs that yield breaths and lively, honest wails. A small, beating heart, and, “Yes,” he rasps, an answer too simple for the truth he holds in his grip; a truth that’s too grand for that unbearably small form. But she lives, and she breathes, and she _screams_ , and that is, he thinks, not knowing whether to laugh or cry along with her, the simplest and by far the most important truth of all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Look at you,” Ellana murmurs, laughter thick with exhaustion, and a fondness that makes him smile past the worry that still crawls in his gut. Bedridden still, and her pallid complexion makes him pause, but every new day her eyes are a little bit brighter, her breaths a little less heavy. “Traded in your rucksack at long last.”

The sling was a gift – the deep green silk too fine for its purpose, he would argue, but too-fine fabric notwithstanding, its purpose is fulfilled, and he wears it with an ease he no longer questions. Resting his palm over the swaddled bundle strapped to his chest, Solas watches Ellana’s eyes follow the gesture, and the smile that blooms, chasing some of the exhaustion from her expression.

“I never had a reason to, before now,” he says, the words deceptively light, and he doubts anyone else would hear more than a quiet humour returned.

She hums softly, eyes crinkling. “Well I’m glad,” she declares, and with more meaning than her own, simple words suggest; eyes glassy but her gaze fixed firmly on the little shape snug in the sling resting against his heart –

“I think this suits you better.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

When the soft dusting of hair starts to curl, he finds himself smiling. An inconsequential feature, perhaps, insofar as _yours_ and _mine_ go, and there will be years yet before they can see the whole picture. But he can admit to himself at least, that he is happy for this one small thing, imagining little bare feet, ten toes and soles dark and dirty, and a whole garden’s worth of weeds caught in bright red ringlets.

 

 

* * *

 

                                                                 

Apple-round cheeks. A dimple in her chin. Ears that are endearingly large and jutting at an angle – not his, but not Ellana’s, either. Something in between, and he presses his nose to the curve, unduly pleased at the small, delighted giggle that pulls from the toothless grin he can’t see but knows already.

So many small things, so many small features to discover and learn, and her, at once the smallest and grandest of them all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s a herb.”

“It’s a _plant._ Plants wilt,” Bull argues. “What about ‘Dragon’?”

“I slay dragons,” Ellana counters breezily. “Plants are resilient. If you don’t pick them, they might outlast most living things.” She looks at Solas where he sits, their daughter in the curve of his arm, and – “ _Sage_ ,” she repeats, her smile growing, stretching wide along that single, lovely syllable.

And it’s decided.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He lies with his back in the grass, his daughter a small weight on his chest, sleeping soundly. Above them the sky stretches, a perfect, cloudless blue, and on the edge of his hearing sings the clash of blades from the practice yard; the bustle of the Skyhold market. But this spot in the cold sun is his, and hers, and it’s the perfect quiet in which to steal an hour or two of undisturbed sleep – to wander beyond the waking world, and he would, usually, but –

But his palm is large enough to span the entire width of her back. And for all that she can’t speak a single word yet, and won’t be shaken from her slumber even by the courtyard chatter, he can’t take his eyes off the top of her head, and the soft dusting of hair peeking out of her knitted hat. That chubby cheek, pressed to his tunic, and her slightly parted mouth. He feels the hard realness of this world in the ground beneath him; feels the glare of the winter sun, bright and cold. But his daughter is soft, impossibly so – a living reminder of the potential that lies beneath that hard earth.

And so, quietly enraptured, he stays awake watching – etching every detail into his memory, every small noise and movement. No ancient battlefields or crystal spires to beckon a nostalgic mind, only the newness of her being, and the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath his palm.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The crib is rarely left unattended.

“You didn’t have the best soil,” Cole says. “But you grew anyway. I can feel you, growing. Your thoughts, too bright for words. Colours and sounds, it’s all a little too bright for you, but you will get there.”

A pause, then – “Sprouting, smiling, _stubborn,_ but you’re not a weed,” he adds, not an observation, but a statement that falls with quiet determination, though there is no one around to hear.

“Weeds are unwelcome, unwanted. You never were.”


	2. little dancing feet

He walks the mountain slopes – the safe routes where the stones won’t slip, and his steps are sure and his focus steady as he picks his way along familiar footpaths. The sling bears her little weight with ease, and he’s grown used to the feel of it, and of her, tucked safely against his chest and beneath his coat, to ward off the cold.

He walks in silence, enthralled by her gentle, humming noises, but even as he stores them away for safekeeping he catches himself thinking years down the line, and to a set of small feet following, and a small voice keeping up a steady stream of chatter to fill the space between his breaths – a dearly precious thought, for one who has so long been resigned to a path much darker, and much, much lonelier.

But for now he allows himself to enjoy the quiet – her quiet, and her lovely, wordless sounds – for that, too, is a fact dear and precious in its own right.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“This is a very small sock,” Dorian observes, holding up the aforementioned object with a strangely delighted grin.

Sprawled on the blanket before her, Sage kicks her legs, and Ellana blows a stray lock of hair from her face, expression contorting with annoyance. With only one hand, changing her daughter is something of a struggle, but it’s practice she sorely needs, lest she saddle the nursemaid with all the work.

Not to mention, it’s a matter of pride – just because she’s lost an arm doesn’t make her useless. Or at least, it shouldn’t.

“I could do that, you know.”

Glancing up, she doesn’t bother hiding her surprise. “Weren’t you just complaining about the smell? It doesn’t get any better when you’re elbow-deep in it, and I’ve seen you deal with filth before. You can’t magic this away.”

“You wound me.”

She swats him lightly with one of the clean linen diapers. “Hardly. If I were really trying, I’d smack you with a dirty one.” But she moves out of the way when he kneels down beside her, and observes with growing amusement as he pokes one of Sage’s feet, watching her tiny toes curl with interest.

They sit there for a while in silence, Ellana watching Dorian fiddle with the strip of linen, turning it over in his hands with an expression that bravely attempts at conveying scholarly intrigue, but doesn’t succeed in hiding the fact that he has no idea where to begin.

Then, clearing his throat, “You know, this doesn’t strike me as a naturally _intuitive_ skill–”

“I’ll instruct you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s the most half-hearted game of chess they’ve ever played.

“Arishok to–”

Sage makes a noise – a soft _coo_ that rises from where she lies in the curve of a massive arm, and Iron Bull’s grin stretches with a laugh. “What, you don’t think it’s the right move? Forgive me if I don’t trust you – since I’m playing your old man, your opinion’s clearly biased.”

Another string of syllables follow – a seamless, meaningless babble, but Iron Bull nods along intently. Solas observes his shifting expressions, the eye-patch quirking with his widening grin, and it’s with exceptional care that he makes to shift in his seat, careful not to disturb the blanketed bundle in the crook of his arm.

And it’s something of a sight, Solas decides, watching someone of Iron Bull’s stature gently rocking a babe small enough to fit in the dip of his palm.

A long moment follows in which neither of them say a word, busy watching the small bundle, and the wide eyes trained on the sharp horns far above her head, obscuring her view of the sky. And it’s a good few minutes before Iron Bull speaks up, although without lifting his eyes to Solas–

“Wait – whose turn is it?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Purrs, hisses. Fur, soft to the touch. Touch it. I want to touch it.”

“Kit,” Sage chirps, ever-shifting thoughts echoed with far more simplicity, and pointing to the little shape slinking past the corner of the tavern.

“Yes.”

There’s a pause - a pause he _feels_ , along with the childlike need that kindles, small flames that simmer with excitement. It’s a joy unlike anyone else’s joy, this wild, childish thing. More similar to a spirit’s delighted glee, and he has always been good with spirits.

Then, “Catch?” she asks, tilting her head up to look at him. The hat casts her face in shadow, and shields it from the glare of the sun, but despite his small cares, there’s a pale dusting of freckles growing ever darker across the bridge of her nose.

A smile meets her inquisitive gaze, curving under the wide-brimmed hat. “Okay.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

At her first banquet she’s toddling with ease, if a bit too much enthusiasm at times as she physically launches herself across the room, the bell-shaped skirt of her dress a pale cloud of green and her curls bouncing about her face, and her shrieking laughter ringing loudly above the ballroom chatter.

She commandeers him for a dance, of course – no one is surprised, least of all Solas, and somewhere in his peripheral he catches the band changing their tune to one that’s not so quick; accommodating for the little legs desperately trying to keep up with the dancing couples around them.

She’s balancing on his feet, little arms raised high and her lip sucked between her teeth in concentration, and it’s difficult keeping a straight face, watching her very serious expression as he makes to twirl in a slow circle, steps steady and deliberate and her hands tucked against his palms. He feels the eyes of the ballroom on his back, and hears the murmurs below the music, but the brief glance he offers across the room is to Ellana, leaning against a pillar with a private smile and laughter in her eyes.

By the third song, Sage is half-asleep, the excitement of the day no doubt playing some part in the heavily drooping eyelids and the earnest yawns, but – “ _No_ ,” comes the prompt answer when he attempts to lift her up, even though she’s barely standing. But she acquiesces when he promises he’ll keep dancing, although she’s fast asleep long before the band stops playing, arms gone slack about his neck, and sprawled against his shoulder with all her small, honest weight. But he stays where he is, swaying gently to a song from deep in his memory, and feeling her steady breaths under the press of his palm against her back.

He senses Ellana approaching, her steps quiet across the polished floors, shoes long discarded and the skirts of her dress caught between her fingers. “Everyone else has stopped dancing,” she observes, pausing to tuck a stray curl behind a jutting ear. “And there’s no band playing.”

“She would not have let that stop her, I think,” Solas chuckles softly. Then, tilting his head, “Nor would you.”

Her smile widens, and she moves to wrap her lone arm around his midsection, tucking the sleeping shape between them. But Sage doesn’t stir as they sway together in their silent dance, the ballroom empty save the servants clearing away the tables; the only music the _clink_ of trays and glasses, cutlery and plates.

And the softly fluttering heartbeat, caged so gently between their own.


	3. heart-gifts and hearth tales

Swaddled and sleeping soundly, the bundle lies snug at the centre of the crib, a warmth of colour against the white linen – a rosy, bow-shaped lip, and soft, pink cheeks; the fine dusting of rust-coloured hair peeking out from her knitted cap. He marvels at her quiet slumber, and wonders at the place she visits – if there are spirits there to charm her, and to draw laughter from her chest long before she knows how to recreate it for their own ears. There are those he knows who care for children, keeping them from harm, and lining their path with lights as they wander. And for those who are not yet walking there are spirits of compassion, to hold them until waking.

A warmth beside him, and a hip bumping against his in familiar greeting. “Hoping she’ll wake so you’ll have an excuse to pick her up?” But her grin tells him she already knows the answer, just as he knows she feels that odd compulsion too, when she reaches down into the crib to fiddle with a corner of the knitted blanket. When she draws her hand back she leans against him, and he presses his nose into her hair; an old dance with a new tune, and they’re still adapting their steps to the pace, but this, at least, they know – each other.

“She’s quiet,” Ellana murmurs, an unspoken question tacked onto the end of the remark.

“We could exploit the opportunity,” Solas agrees. “You mentioned a bath.”

“Hmm. You could join me.”

His smile is lost against her hair, but he doesn’t reach to draw her away, and neither does Ellana. And though their daughter doesn’t stir and the quiet sits, uninterrupted, the bath doesn’t happen. But it’s a small sacrifice, he finds – everything seems to be, these days, for the time taken simply to watch.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You think about it sometimes.”

Cassandra doesn’t flinch at the remark – his steps still go unnoticed, too quiet even for her trained ears, but she’s been around Cole enough to find a strange sort of comfort in his easy intrusion. There’s no judgement, only the truth, and she has long since learned to swallow it when served.

Across the courtyard she spies Solas, and the babe in her sling, carried with ease, as though he’s born the weight his whole life. Ellana walks at his side, her own steps measured, careful things; her first trip outside the keep since the birth, and the amputation. But they’re neither of them in a hurry, and delayed further by the many curious well-wishers stopping to steal a glance at their daughter.

“Something of mine to pass on. A string of names like pearls around my mother’s neck. Anthony, for a boy.” A pause, and then, “You think you might want it.”

She draws a breath – the cold mountain air burns in her lungs, but there’s a warmth that settles in its wake, and, “Yes,” she admits quietly, the word a terribly soft, terribly _personal_ thing, watching the small crowd of people gathering, and the little family at its heart.

And it might have surprised her, once, speaking the rare desire so openly, but the only surprise she feels now is that she ever feared to want it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Ah, your blouse–”

An elegant hand waves the words away, although the stain is considerable, seeping into the pale silk like a vicious promise. There’ll be no getting it out, Ellana knows, but Vivienne doesn’t hand Sage back, only tucks her against her other shoulder, and continues rubbing soft circles against her back.

“It’s just a little spit, darling.” A small burp escapes, and dark eyes crinkle with a smile that aches, before she adds, and with a voice that refuses to tremble – “And there are far worse things to endure in this world than that.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The fire crackles in the hearth, and it’s just the two of them – wherever her parents have stowed themselves away, Varric hopes they’re spending their time productively.

“And then there’s our heroine – let’s call her _Daisy._ She’s an alley cat, scrappy little thing, but cute, and with one of those tails that just stick right up. Now, an older, wiser cat – ruggedly handsome, too, I might add – warned her away from the dark alleys, but do you think that stopped her? And so one day, Daisy got herself a ball of twine–”

He’s stopped paying attention to what he’s saying – and it’s a good thing there’s no one else about, his writer’s reputation taken into consideration, but it’s difficult minding too much when your audience is so earnestly attentive, eyes wide and holding onto his, although he knows she can’t understand a word coming out of his mouth.

“Hey, kit,” he’s saying then, shifting his grip around the small bundle, and for the briefest of moments there’s a strange ache in his chest, thinking about that ball of twine, and a pair of eyes just as bright as the ones looking up at him now. “Take my advice – always have a ball of twine at the ready. You never know how dark the path can get until you’re already on it.”

Sage only looks at him, and he watches the firelight catch in the soft copper strands peeking out above her ears, small and pointed. Too young to even crawl yet, and too young to heed his advice, let alone understand the weary heart behind it, but he gives it anyway. No one else around to give it to, after all.

A toothless smile stretches then, pink gums showing, and a snort pulls free of his nose. “Yeah, I’m prone to the occasional bout of melancholy. Don’t tell your mother, she thinks I’m feeding you stories about ducklings and nugs. But where was I? Ah, yes. Now, Daisy had a friend named Hawke…”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“What’s this?”

Sera shifts her weight to her hip, crossing her arms. “’S a gift. You bring gifts, yeah? Births and stuff. It’s nasty, but you’re happy, and there’s this seamstress in the tavern, and–” She clamps her mouth shut, and cuts a grimace. “Don’t make a fuss.”

Rubbing the soft fabric between her fingertips, Ellana considers the dress – almost too small to fathom, with frilly sleeves, and little bees embroidered along the hem. Her laugh is a thick half-sob. “Bees.”

When she looks up, Sera shrugs. “Vivi helped. Didn’t want something too elfy – kid might get ideas, and you’ve got Solas for–”

She only has one arm, but one arm is enough to wrangle her into a crushing hug, her tears falling freely now, but Sera doesn’t protest.

Well. Not _much_.

And it’s not the only such gift, just the first. Over the years, there’ll be more – small parcels dropped on their doorstep in the dead of night, wrapped with red paper and string, and always bearing the same note – _‘to Bumblebee’._ A gold pendant, when Sage turns three; a small bee of onyx and yellow topaz, barely the size of a teardrop. Then, a leather-bound book, pages filled with clever poems and sketches. Two matching hairpins with dark, glittering gemstones, and diamonds to depict tiny, gossamer wings. And a box to keep them in, engraved with a honeycomb pattern – the style of the chisel-cuts familiar, but when questioned Thom only smiles, and claims no knowledge of its origin.

Sera never speaks of it, and Ellana doesn’t ask, and Sage’s collection grows and grows – a small hive of bee-themed jewels and trinkets, and the buzz of excitement surrounding the mysterious red parcels never wanes. And they never stop coming – someone always sends them, long after that fierce, clever laughter is gone; when the whispers have stopped speaking her name, and when all that remains is an old, old tavern song, and a small wooden box, stuffed to the brim with notes all bearing the same two words:

_to Bumblebee_


End file.
